


Winter 1917

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-12
Updated: 2005-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-13 21:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3396755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan worked for the Red Cross.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter 1917

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to elynross, not only for her wonderful beta work, but for originally suggesting that I write about Duncan in WWI. This story was written for the ["One Picture Is Worth 1000 Words: Third Times The Charm"](http://www.livejournal.com/community/picfor1000/288.html) challenge.

The sounds of battle faded, but occasionally Duncan heard the boom of a mortar. He cursed as he swerved to avoid a pothole left by artillery fire; a man in the back of the ambulance screamed as his leg was jarred again. Duncan flexed his fingers on the wheel, fingers frozen with the chill winter air. He had to perch on the bench seat as he drove, the wind streaming around him as he hit thirty kilometers an hour. At least the men in back had canvas around them to protect them from the wind and snow while they crossed the mountain pass. 

Five kilometers. Files kilometers left to the chateau. Five kilometers left to the Red Cross station. 

Six men sat in the back, two delirious from the morphine he'd given them, and the others ambulatory. The lieutenant that had lost an arm had probably completely passed out, as had the one with cracked ribs. Private Anderson had lost an eye, but he wouldn't take anything for the pain, would hardly move at all. Those were the worst ones, though; the others had bullet wounds and the like. No mustard gas, no shrapnel, no gut wounds this round, thank God. If he were lucky, they all might live, if he got them to help in time. 

Duncan felt the wheels slip as he hit a patch of ice, and turned into it, gunning to straighten it out. One of the men in the back yelled something, but Duncan didn't really listen; the front right wheel slipped off the edge of the road into a ditch, and Duncan had to use his strength to keep the vehicle on the road. 

"Fuck!" screamed one of the men in the back. "Oh, fuck. Please, God, I don't want to die." 

"You're not going to die," Duncan yelled, trying to get just a little more power out of the engine. It flared briefly, pulling them up over the worst of the ruts and out onto smooth ground. Duncan wiped his forehead, the sweat dripping from it. 

Four kilometers to go. 

They passed trench after trench as they drove along, reminders of former battles, before the Germans were pressed back. As he passed the officer's cemetery, with its six hundred crosses, he noticed that the white trim on his uniform was stained again; whether it was blood or motor oil, he couldn't tell. It was stupid to put any of them in white. 

He had to cross one last hill before they were completely in the clear, and the truck decided that it was time to act up. It hit a rough spot, and Duncan had to grind on the gears to get the ambulance up and over the hill, alternating brake, clutch, and gas, hoping the damn thing would go. The men in back yelled at him -- it was a steep climb -- and their speed slowed to a crawl. "Come on, come on!" he yelled, feeling the gears slip again -- then hold. The truck managed to get to the top of the mound, and Duncan could see his destination, a large stone building that had been converted to a hospital for the duration of the war. 

Mary Isakson was the first one out, followed by the doctors and some of the orderlies. She gave him a vague wave as she passed, her eyes already looking at the men in the back of the ambulance. They had a standing agreement involving a couple of drinks and some dinner when they were both off duty, but not tonight. 

Maugham, another driver, strolled up while they were unloading and stood next to Duncan . He was too old and too short to have enlisted, probably in his mid-forties and only as tall as Duncan 's chest, but he was a solid, dependable man and one of the best volunteer drivers. "Good work, MacLeod." He watched the stretcher with one of the delirious men being unloaded. "They look like they'll survive." 

Duncan shook his head. "I left a dozen men back at the field hospital that need to get here. They might not all make it." 

"MacLeod, give yourself some credit. You saved these men's lives." 

"It's not enough, is it?" 

"No," said Maugham. "It's never enough." He put his arm around Duncan and pressed him toward the building. "You're frozen. At least have something to eat and drink before you go out again." He smiled wryly at Duncan. "I suppose it's no good to mention that there are twenty other men who can make the run up the mountainside tonight?" 

"No." Duncan shook his head. "But I will have some coffee before I go." 

"Good man," Maugham squeezed his shoulder, then stopped. He stared upward a moment, then cleared his throat. "Have you heard that the army is annexing the ambulance drivers?" 

Duncan nodded, not looking at him. He had mixed feeling about it. "Aye, I heard." 

"Will you stay?" 

That was the question, wasn't it? Duncan had joined the Red Cross because he'd had enough of fighting. There was no just war as far as he was concerned anymore, just men killing each other in the most efficient way. And they'd still need someone to drive the wounded, no matter what uniform they wore. "Maybe. You?" 

"No." Maugham shook his head. "The army won't take an old man like me. I'm thinking more of intelligence work. British Intelligence." 

"What will you do?" 

"I have no idea. I like to think I can do something that might prevent these senseless deaths. You should think about that, too, in case you decide that you don't like army life." 

Duncan shook his head. "Too many wounded men need transport. Maybe next war." 

Maugham squeezed Duncan 's arm. "I'm not a superstitious man, MacLeod, but don't even think it, let alone say it. One great war is enough." He took a deep breath and let it out. "Come on. There's coffee and food waiting." 

Duncan nodded, following his friend inside. 


End file.
